


Madara and Izuna's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Weekend

by theadventuresof



Category: Naruto
Genre: Body Swap, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 05:06:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14073504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theadventuresof/pseuds/theadventuresof
Summary: Madara and Izuna switch bodies. Chaos ensues.





	Madara and Izuna's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Weekend

**Author's Note:**

> this is without a doubt the absolute dumbest fix-it fic i've ever written

**THE NIGHT BEFORE**

“You’re late,” Madara says. “I thought you said you’d be back here before noon.”

“Sorry,” Izuna says blandly, moving past him to deposit his findings on the table. Thirty ryō, a curved silver dagger, a bottle of ink, a single earring shaped like a fish.

Madara chews on his pipe, leans forward slightly in his chair to inspect the pile. He raises an eyebrow. “No food today?”

Izuna avoids his brother’s eyes. “No,” he says. He _had_ eaten while he was out, stolen half a pastry from a vendor’s cart at the corner of the square. He feels a small pang of guilt. He just—he had forgotten to bring some back. And now, damn it, he’s hungry again.

Madara sighs. “Here,” he says, as if he’s read Izuna’s mind. He sets his pipe down, and slides a bowl of soup across the table. “I saved the last of it for you.”

Grateful, Izuna lifts the bowl to his lips, then pauses, frowning. “Did you eat?” he says. “You should now, if you haven’t yet.”

Madara shakes his head. “It’s yours,” he says, reaching across the table to inspect Izuna’s dagger.

Izuna purses his lips. “But—”

“Just take the soup, Izuna!” Madara snaps.

Izuna decides not to argue, and drinks his soup in guilty silence. The main ingredient seems to be hot water. He grimaces. Next week they’ll have more food, once they’ve relocated to the northern compound. He can barely wait.

Madara flicks the fish earring across the table at him. “You’d better take this too,” he says. “I can’t think of anyone else who would willingly wear it.”

Izuna pockets it with a smirk, and makes a note to wear it as often as he can from now on, if Madara really thinks it’s that ugly.

“Where’s Naomi?” Izuna says. “I want to send a message.”

Madara bites his lip. “She’s away right now,” he says quickly. “Use one of the sparrowhawks instead, but make it quick. We’re relocating to the northern compound at nightfall.”

Izuna frowns. “Today? I thought that wasn’t until next week.”

“Change of plans,” says Madara. “I got word this morning that the Senju are moving up from the south as we speak. We should meet them the day after tomorrow between the mountains.” He gives a satisfied hum. “We’ll have the terrain advantage, at least. They’ll have to climb to reach us.”

“You’ve certainly thought this through,” Izuna says.

“Well, you know what they say,” says Madara. “If a tree falls in the forest, you know it's time to plant a seed.”

Izuna snorts. “Who the fuck says that?” he says, but Madara just smiles faintly and turns back to his pipe without answering.

* * *

The Yamanaka clan intercepts them just before they arrive at the compound. They’re hardly half an hour away from their destination, making surprisingly good time, and only when he hears the clattering of kunai up ahead does Izuna realize something has gone wrong. _Of course_ they would be attacked when they’re so close to arriving safely and without incident, he thinks. The Yamanaka always did have an inclination towards mind games.

“Get behind me!” he hisses to Yumi and her lieutenant, drawing his sword as quietly as he can manage. “Send word to the back,” he says. “Make sure everyone is still organized. I’m going to go see what’s going on.”

Yumi nods sharply and takes off down the line. Izuna watches pair after pair of glowing sharingan eyes blink into life as she runs past the throng of clan members behind him. Satisfied, he stalks off in the opposite direction, following the noise of battle. No one from the Yamanaka has noticed him yet. Good. He easily spots Madara, duelling with the Yamanaka matriarch. Up here, near the compound’s outermost boundary line, the air is thick with flying kunai and shuriken. Izuna ducks nimbly, avoiding a volley of senbon, and continues on with his sword in his hand, slashing his way through Yamanaka folk left and right. It’s too dangerous for fire jutsu here, he thinks. They’re too close to the compound—too close to where all the fireworks are kept. The plain roofs of the outermost storage buildings are within view through the trees now. This isn’t good. He hopes no one from the Yamanaka has infiltrated the main hall.

Yamanaka dives gracefully out of the way of Madara’s sword. Her pale eyes flash in Izuna’s direction. Izuna frowns. Something isn’t quite right here. And then—

A strangely powerful surge of air knocks them both flat on their backs. The earth shakes. Izuna lands hard on the ground with a particularly sharp root stabbing in between his shoulder blades. He groans—or tries to; his voice is gone. _Fuck,_ Izuna thinks. She’s caught them in some sort of jutsu, pinned their bodies to the ground. He feels like he’s trying to run away in a dream, but can’t quite get his legs to obey his body. Madara is doubled over to his left. Izuna tries to call out to him, make sure he’s all right, but his voice still won’t work. _Fine,_ he decides. He doesn’t need his voice to prove himself. Now is his chance. Madara is still down. Grim determination runs through him. He concentrates, and activates his Mangekyou. He feels the familiar flicker of heat in his belly, and takes a long, deep breath, gathering chakra in his hands and feet. Pale, colorless flame bursts up from the ground by his left hand. Izuna feels giddy. He’s really about to do it.

Madara, of course, chooses that exact moment to lift his head. He sees Izuna’s Mangekyou, sees the chakra building around him. “Don’t!” he screams, but before Izuna can even attempt to activate his Susanoo, Madara activates his first, and the skeletal arm that extends suddenly from his back lashes through the air barrier and shatters whatever jutsu the Yamanaka leader had cast on them. Izuna falls back, winded and dizzy, with blood dripping steadily from one ear. All the fighting around him sounds oddly muffled. He sits up with difficulty. Next to him, Madara is getting to his feet as well.

“What the hell was that?” Madara shouts. Izuna shrugs. His ears are still ringing. He shakes himself, tries to focus on the task at hand. It looks like most of the fighting is over now, he realizes. The Yamanaka are retreating into the forest, and a very bloody Hikaku sprints after them with a sword in each hand.

Izuna gets to his feet, more than a little disappointed. No Susanoo today, _again_. Hikaku is coming back, wiping blood from his forehead. “No casualties,” he says breathlessly. “We were lucky. Let’s just get everyone inside.”

“Did you feel that?” Madara shouts at him. “That jutsu?”

Hikaku’s face wrinkles in confusion. “What jutsu?” he says. Izuna’s ears are ringing so hard, he can barely make out his words. “Madara, I’m standing right here.”

“Never mind,” Madara shouts. Both he and Hikaku turn around to assess the damage. One of the storage buildings at the edge of the compound has caught fire, but it looks fairly contained. It could certainly be a lot worse, Izuna thinks. Madara gives Izuna a very dangerous look and storms off to help put it out.

Izuna wipes his bloody sword on the grass. He was so close this time. He had felt the chakra in his fingertips and everything. Damn it, he was so _close._

 _“Izuna!”_ he hears Madara yell hoarsely from across lower level of the compound, as if he’s read Izuna’s mind. Izuna groans.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he says. But Madara is stomping back over, gloved hands balled into fists and blood and ash on his face. Oh, hell. Izuna knows just what’s coming now. He braces himself.

“How many times do I have to tell you? I _don’t_ want you using that jutsu!” Madara shouts as he arrives. “Not even in emergencies, Izuna, do you understand me?”

Izuna rolls his eyes. “What is the _point,”_ he says, “of having the Mangekyou sharingan if I can’t even _use_ it? How am I supposed to keep the clan safe to the best of my ability if my own brother won’t let me use the powers I have?”

“Izuna,” Madara says, desperation creeping into his voice, “Just—just believe me, you don’t _want_ to use them! I promise!”

“You always tell me that!” Izuna shouts, well aware that people are starting to stare at them both. “For once, will you let me figure something out for myself? I just want to know what I’m getting into! _Please_ try to understand where I’m coming from, Madara!”

Madara’s face softens slightly. “Izuna,” he says slowly, “I’m just trying to protect y—”

“I don’t need—I have—I’m not a _child_ anymore,” Izuna says, breathing rather harder than normal.

“I know,” Madara says tiredly. “You are an adult. A reckless, impulsive adult with absolutely no consideration for the potential consequences of your actions, and I just don’t think you’re ready to—”

 _“Don’t_ try to patronize me,” Izuna says. “I’m not just an object for you to try to protect. I have my own merits, Madara. Consider that.”

“Izuna—”

“I’m going to bed now,” Izuna announces loftily, and leaves Madara standing, blood-drenched and dumbstruck, by the main hall of the compound. He’s unable to ignore the prickling feeling that he’s proving Madara’s exact point by stomping off in a huff like this. Maybe he should have stayed to help clean up some of the blood. But, damn it, he can’t just turn around now. He’s already started to leave.

* * *

**DAY ONE**

Izuna wakes up with a horrible hangover. Strange. To his knowledge, he wasn’t actually drunk last night. Was he? He groans, and stirs—his voice is astoundingly hoarse, for some reason, and as he gingerly turns his head against the pillow he catches a strong whiff of Madara’s pipe smoke. He clears his throat, which doesn’t help at all, and rolls over with difficulty. Something is slightly off with the dimensions of his body, and his hair feels longer than usual. He reaches under his pillow for his hair tie, and, finding nothing, cracks open his eyes in annoyance.

Oh, fuck. Oh—oh fuck.

He’s gone completely blind overnight. Wait—he blinks. False alarm. It’s just very dim in his tent, and his vision is about fifty times more blurry than usual. Did he hit his head last night? He blinks again, and then once more for good measure. The tent spins. He clutches his head. There’s too much hair. What the fuck is going on? This isn’t even his tent, he realizes with growing panic. Somehow he must have gotten so drunk last night that he forgot about deciding to get drunk in the first place, and then proceeded to wreck his vision and scream himself hoarse, and maybe even brain himself on a low doorway in the process. Oh, fuck, did he hook up with someone while he was blacked out? Did they just leave him here by himself? Actually…he wouldn’t blame them.

This is _Madara’s_ tent, Izuna realizes, which makes absolutely no sense, but at least explains the smell of pipe smoke. Izuna holds his breath and clasps his hands together and prays to every deity in existence that he didn’t make any drunken advances on his own brother last night. Nothing makes _sense_ this morning and these are not Izuna’s hands, what the hell—

Izuna squints down at the pair of hands. They’re his—or rather, they respond when he attempts to flex his fingers—but they’re not…right. He examines his arms. His head throbs as he tries to bully his eyes into focusing properly. These scars are not his. This—this _body_ is not his.

“What the fuck is going on,” Izuna says, in Madara’s voice, at the exact moment that the flap to Madara’s tent is ripped forcefully open. He jumps and scoots back against the floor, tangled in Madara’s blanket. And then Izuna watches _himself_ storm into the tent, murderous and livid, before coming to an abrupt halt with his face twisted in horror. _Does my face really look like that? I look completely stupid,_ Izuna thinks, and then shakes himself.

“What the hell,” says the impostor-Izuna, biting his lip in a very familiar way, and with a horrible sinking feeling, Izuna realizes _exactly_ what the fuck is going on.

“Good morning,” Izuna says grimly.

“Oh,” Madara says in Izuna’s voice, in Izuna’s _body_ , “shit.”

“Caught on, have you?” Izuna says, shocked at how calm his voice sounds, especially because his brain is practically begging his mouth to open up and start screaming.

“Fuck, is this genjutsu?” Madara says, his voice— _Izuna’s_ voice—rising in panic. “Did that Yamanaka woman do something?”

“Hell if I know,” Izuna rasps. “I’ve never seen genjutsu like this before…”

Madara grimaces. “If it is genjutsu,” he says, activating Izuna’s sharingan, “we both should have been able to break it by now.” Izuna chokes back a rather desperate laugh and realizes that his brother is still talking. His words aren’t making even the slightest shred of sense, partly due to his immense headache— _does Madara always get these?_ —but mainly because all he can focus on are Madara’s inflections in Izuna’s voice, Madara’s signature annoyed grimace on Izuna’s face, Madara’s arms crossed tightly over Izuna’s chest in that almost-familiar way.

“Stop, stop,” Izuna finally mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers and holding up one hand to slow him down. Damn, is this what he normally sounds like to Madara? It’s annoying as hell. “Just hang on a minute.”

“Try a henge,” Madara says in Izuna’s voice, and Izuna wants to smack Madara’s head into a wall. Or, even better, slam their foreheads together and hope that the jolt from the impact puts the world back the way it was. Izuna shakes himself and performs the necessary seals. There is a sort of tugging sensation behind his clavicle, as if his body wants to transform but can’t.

Izuna frowns. “What the hell,” he says. As if in response to his attempt, his head gives another awful throb, and a twisting blurred spiral shape slides slowly across his field of vision. He squeezes his eyes shut and waits for it to go away. “Madara, your eyesight is awful.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Madara hisses. “Gods, this is fucked. Just help me figure out how to get us back.”

Izuna puts his palms to his forehead. “Can you just dress as me and I dress as you and we hope no one notices?” he groans.

Madara’s scathing reply is cut off by the arrival of Hikaku, who pulls back the tent flap and pokes his head inside, looking rather frazzled. “Madara?” he says.

“Yes?” they both answer. Madara gives Izuna a withering look and pointedly half-nods towards the opening, where Hikaku is still waiting expectantly.

Izuna clears his throat. “Yes,” he says, with as much authority as he can muster. “That’s me.”

“Right,” Hikaku says, glancing from Madara to Izuna with a faintly confused frown. He coughs slightly. “I’ve been sent to collect you. The clan meeting starts in twenty minutes. Although,” his eyes trail from Madara, fuming silently on the floor in Izuna’s body, to Izuna’s—Madara’s, really—ruffled hair and undone haori. “I see you’re…not quite…ready yet. I’ll be back shortly.”

He looks as if he has something else to say, but decides against it. The tent flap closes and Hikaku is gone.

“Fuck,” says Madara, feverishly chewing on his lip. “The meeting.”

“I’ll go,” Izuna says at once. He stands up, holds his head up high. “I can do it. I’ve always wanted to sit on the throne.”

Madara laughs humorlessly. “Are you serious?” he says. _“You,_ lead the clan? You don’t know the first thing about politics, or strategy, or budgeting, or—”

“Look,” Izuna says, not about to admit to Madara that his confidence is starting to flag somewhat. “We don’t know how long we’ll be stuck like this. Maybe things will be back to normal in a few hours and we can just move on and forget it ever happened.”

“A few hours!” Madara wheezes. “Izuna, we’re at _war!_ We can’t fight the Senju like this!”

Izuna folds his arms over his chest. “You think I can’t handle Hashirama?”

A spasm of doubt crosses Madara’s face. He stares down at the floor and takes a very long breath. “Izuna, _I_ can barely handle Hashirama,” he says at last. “If we’re not back in our bodies by tomorrow morning—”

“Let’s get through today first,” Izuna says. “I’ll go to the meeting, and you can just—well…”

“I’ll try to figure out what’s going on,” Madara says, getting to his feet. “See if I can find anything in the old clan records. Maybe something like this has happened before.”

“Wait!” Izuna says. “Tie back my hair. It looks weird when it’s loose like that.”

“Oh,” Madara says, pausing with one hand on the tent flap. “Right. I’m so glad you’re here to set my priorities straight.”

“And make sure you make me act cool,” Izuna says. “I can’t have you ruining my daring reputation with your offensively drab personality.”

Madara ties his hair back and tosses his head importantly. “Right,” he says acidly. He simpers. “Hi, I’m Izuna. I have no knowledge whatsoever of the concept of moderation, and long to be taken seriously by my superior-in-all-ways older brother, despite never having accomplished a task on my own in my entire life.”

“Is that so?” Izuna says. Not to be outdone, he stands up too, and puts on his most terrible grimace. “I’m Madara Uchiha,” he growls. “I’m a repressed fifty-year-old stuck in a vicenarian body, and have not laughed in over five years. I despise all forms of harmless artistic self-expression and secretly get off on near-death experiences.” He holds out his arms, grinning wickedly. “How’s that? Am I ready for the clan meeting?”

Halfway out of the tent, Madara winces. “Is that seriously what I sound like to you?” he says. “We are fucked.”

But Izuna watches him go, and notes, rather shrewdly, that he didn’t try to deny any of it.

* * *

Madara is having a truly awful morning, though not just for the most…obvious reasons. Waking up in his brother’s body had been jarring, of course, he thinks to himself as he sets yet another pile of dusty scrolls aside on the floor next to him, but the real problem is…everything else. Because, Madara thinks, _he’s_ decent in a crisis. He can improvise. He can adapt. Izuna, though—he’s not so sure about Izuna.

(He’s _never_ sure about Izuna, and he knows it’s slowly killing him.)

He’s in the clan meeting right now, Madara thinks. _My clan meeting,_ he can’t help but add, and then promptly decides that he doesn’t want to think about it. Either way, his own situation isn’t actually that much better. Being able to see again has been nice. And he had practically forgotten, before this morning, what it was like to be alive and not have a headache. But the rest of this body—Madara isn’t used to it at all. For one thing, he had barely gone an hour after eating this morning when he realized he was ferociously hungry _all over again_. So he had had to walk all the way back to the kitchen to retrieve an entire basket of food to accompany him during his research. _Annoying,_ Madara thinks, biting into two rice balls at once. But, damn it, this is Izuna’s body he’s walking around in, and he needs to take care of it.

Ugh. Izuna’s body. He flexes Izuna’s fingers experimentally. Izuna still bites his nails—Madara had thought he’d dropped the habit years ago—and as he turns the page in his research he makes a mental note to trim them down as soon as he has the chance. Madara wants his pipe. He wants a hot bath. And he doesn’t want to be this age again, practically still a teenager, baby-faced and inexperienced and bursting with too much energy for his own good. It feels like the opposite of progress. He also feels like he needs to go run laps around the meeting hall in order to be able to focus properly on the mountain of papers he’s reading.

Madara sighs. They are fighting the Senju tomorrow morning—which makes his stomach turn for a multitude of reasons—and he prays that he’ll find a way to reverse the jutsu before then. Fuck, Tobirama will definitely notice that _something_ is off. And—Hashirama will notice too, in his own way, Madara is sure of it. They’re not _ready._ He’s put in too much effort to protect Izuna all these years; how is he supposed to protect Izuna in this body? What if he has to use the Susanoo like this? He hasn’t dared to try out Izuna’s Mangekyou yet. The last thing he wants is for Izuna to get used to relying on it if— _when,_ he reminds himself—they are able to switch back. He can’t bear the idea of Izuna going through the same pain that he’s gone through so far. It won’t happen. It can’t.

_I have not laughed in over five years…I secretly get off on near-death experiences._

“Damn it, Izuna,” he says in Izuna’s voice around a sizeable mouthful of rice ball, and laughs in spite of himself as he tucks Izuna’s hair behind his ear. Oh, hell, he had better find something in one of these scrolls soon.

* * *

 _Somehow,_ Izuna gets through the clan meeting in one piece, and steps out of the meeting hall feeling distinctly shaken, with barely any recollection of how he managed to impersonate his brother for over two hours without inciting civil war. Hikaku follows him outside, laden with papers and scrolls, and offers him a steadying arm.

“Madara?” he says, his too-blurry face looming in front of Izuna’s eyes. Izuna edges away from him. “Do you need to sit down?”

Izuna grimaces, and pulls Madara’s hair into a ponytail. It’s difficult—there’s a lot more of it to wrangle with than he’s used to—and he doesn’t have a tie on hand to hold it back from his face. He has no idea how Madara can concentrate with it hanging everywhere. And, fuck, he’s just so _tired._ He hasn’t even done anything! He’s barely been awake for two hours and he’s ready to crawl back down the mountain and slide under his blankets and sleep for a day or two.

“No,” Izuna says. “Just a hair tie. Please.”

His eyes ache like hell. Izuna groans and puts his hands on his temples. He had had _no_ idea that Madara’s eyesight was this bad. Somehow, over the last several years or so, Madara had given him the impression that his overuse of the Mangekyou sharingan had occasionally caused him to have trouble seeing things from a distance, but _this_ is just _—_

“Incompetent.”

“Was he _drunk?”_

“Hardly fit to be leader.”

The little cluster of advisors makes its way slowly out of the meeting hall, smoking long pipes and muttering insults among themselves. They furtively lower their voices as they notice Izuna watching. He can’t seem to move his limbs. Heat rises in his face. He had known before today, of course, that Madara wasn’t wildly popular among the clan as a whole. Somehow, though, hearing it directly from the people he’s just spent several hours in a meeting with hits him like a two-by-four full of nails. Hot anger churns in his throat. _I wasn’t drunk!_ he thinks, outraged. And he’d like to see any of _them_ try to do Madara’s job. It’s certainly not as easy as it looks.

“Madara?” says Hikaku gently, holding out a spare hair tie. Izuna realizes his fists are clenched inside his sleeves and that he’s been standing in place for a good minute, grinding his teeth together. Oh, hell. No wonder his brother gets headaches.

“Thank you, Hikaku,” Izuna says quietly. See—now _that_ actually sounded like Madara, he thinks with grim satisfaction as he gathers his hair into a ponytail again. Speaking of Madara, he should find him, see how his brother is faring in his body. Gods, there’s a thought. “I’ve got to go,” Izuna tells Hikaku. “I’m off to find my—”

“Wait,” Hikaku says, and somehow manages to transfer the massive pile of papers he’s holding into Izuna’s arms. “Before you go, these need to be signed by noon today,” he points at a stack of documents as thick as Izuna’s calf, “these need to be taken to Naori sometime before the end of the week,” he indicates the small mountain of scrolls, “and this—” he delicately places a tiny rolled-up scrap of paper on top of the whole stack, “is this month’s invoice from Sora-ku, so look it over when you can.”

“Great,” Izuna says, hurriedly making a mental note to stash the whole pile in Madara’s tent as soon as he can and never look at it ever again.

“Take care of yourself, Madara,” Hikaku says, then pats him on the shoulder a little awkwardly and vanishes in a puff of smoke.

* * *

Back in Madara’s tent, Izuna shoves the pile of paperwork under the nightstand, slumps down against Madara’s pillow, closes his aching eyes, and lets the blessed dimness wash over him. Then, frowning, he sifts through the scattered papers, and pulls out the tiny invoice from Sora-ku. He’s never actually read an invoice before. He knows that the clan is struggling financially, but isn’t sure just _how_ bad they’re struggling. Curious, he unrolls the paper. He winces. The numbers are almost too small to read. He rolls it back up, leans his head back against the nightstand, and closes his eyes once more. The tent is so dim…so cool…he could sleep like this, right now. And yet, soon as the thought crosses his mind, he hears hurried footsteps approaching from outside the tent. With the utmost reluctance, he opens one eye a fraction of a millimeter. “Who is it,” he rasps.

Madara enters the tent. Izuna groans. “Nothing on unexplained body-swapping in the—why on earth is your sharingan on?” Madara says, coming to a halt in the entryway.

“Couldn’t see without it,” Izuna mumbles, at the loudest volume that he dares to speak.

“Keep it deactivated,” Madara says, kneeling next to him by the bed. “It’ll help with the headaches.”

Izuna groans again. “You get a lot of those, huh?”

Madara purses his lips. “What’s that?” he says instead of answering, pointing to the slip of paper in Izuna’s hand.

“Oh,” Izuna says. He had forgotten he was still holding it. “It’s for you.”

Madara snatches it out of his hands. He unfurls the tiny scroll, frowns, and rolls it back up with a small disappointed sigh.

Izuna laughs tiredly. “What were you expecting?” he says. “I’ve never seen anyone so eager to open an invoice before.”

“Whatever,” Madara says with a scowl, slipping the invoice into the pocket of his robes as he turns to leave. “If there’s any more mail for me, just bring it to the tent. And don’t you dare read any!” he shouts, retreating back outside, but Izuna is already half asleep.

* * *

Things could definitely be worse. Granted, Izuna can’t think of any specific ways that things could be worse, but he’s pretty sure that the current situation is not as bad as it could be.

Unfortunately, this notion provides little comfort. After his nap, Izuna wanders vaguely down the mountain for a while, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that he should probably head back to the compound and do important clan-leader-y things. The fact that things are not as bad as they could be gives him the distinct impression that the situation is definitely headed in a…well, in a sharp downward direction. They are fighting the Senju clan tomorrow morning, Izuna remembers, with an unpleasant surge of fear. Fuck, he’ll have to fight _Hashirama,_ won’t he. He promptly tries to put it out of his mind. _Later,_ he thinks. He’ll deal with it later. He crosses a field, and then a little stream, thinking of stopping by the edge of the forest to collect blackberries for paint. Oh—but he can’t paint as Madara. Not in public, anyway. The clan would _definitely_ get suspicious if Madara’s artistic abilities suddenly skyrocketed.

A hawk calls. One of Madara’s, Izuna thinks, and he looks up, squinting. He spots Naomi’s shape on the horizon, drawing closer with swift wingbeats, and he fumbles with Madara’s long gloves as she circles just above him like a ghost. “Hello,” he says once he’s pulled the gloves on, letting her land lightly on his forearm. She gently squeezes his sleeve with her talons and folds her wings against her back, looking around with an air of severe importance. Izuna almost doesn’t see the tiny, caterpillar-sized scroll wrapped around her leg. “What have you got for me?” he says.

She holds perfectly still for him, pale eyes unblinking, as he carefully begins to unroll it one-handed. It’s a tiny slip of paper barely the width of his thumbnail, but longer than his forearm once it’s fully unfurled. It almost looks like a long sliver of birch bark, Izuna thinks, and wonders why on earth Naomi didn’t come directly to the compound with it. Something is written on it in green ink, in tiny, cramped handwriting. Izuna squints. He can barely make it out with his eyesight like this. Luckily, it’s a little more legible than the Sora-ku invoice.

 _Dearest Madara,_ reads the opening line, and Izuna does a violent double take. Naomi bobs slightly on his sleeve, giving him a scathing look as she rights herself. “Sorry,” Izuna says quickly. “And thank you,” he remembers to add as she takes off, apparently having had enough. He composes himself and tries again. No—the first line still resolutely reads _Dearest Madara._ Apparently _dear_ just wasn’t enough _._ He must be dreaming. This cannot possibly be real.

 _Dearest Madara,_ he reads,

_I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write. Spring is always such a busy time of year, don’t you think? It was lovely to see Naomi again. She’s such a beautiful bird. I wish you were here. I wish we could just be together all the time. Madara, I wish so many things that some nights I ache with it. I miss you. Remember what you said last time we met, when you saved that baby sparrow, that starting over isn’t so hard? I hope you’re right. You give me so much hope. All the maples have buds on them now. Do your maples have buds yet? I know you’re farther up in the mountains than we are. I hope you are well, and that the clan is well. I know it’s risky, especially right now, but I really want to see you again. I’ll be waiting at the old spot tomorrow just before sundown, by the bend in the river. I have important news._

_All my love._

“Holy fuck,” Izuna whispers in utter disbelief, his fingers trailing idly over _all my love_. Madara has a _suitor?_ And a _secret_ one, at that, Izuna thinks, turning the letter over and over in his hands. There’s no signature whatsoever. “Holy _fuck,”_ he says again, for good measure. How romantic. He would never have guessed. He wonders who it could possibly be. It’s not an Uchiha, he’s sure—they’re all easy enough to rule out. Maybe it’s a civilian, Izuna thinks. How scandalous. He feels a twinge of guilt at reading Madara’s private mail, but quickly brushes that aside.

Izuna makes up his mind in about a split second. He won’t reveal himself to the person, he reasons, more guilt rising steadily in his throat and chest, but he just…he just wants to see who could possibly be invested enough in his brother to _court_ him. And—he cringes—Madara _cannot_ know that he knows. He’ll just have to go in secret. Besides, now he has something to look forward to tomorrow after they fight the Senju.

He _has_ to know who it is.

* * *

**DAY TWO**

He had completely put the impending battle out of his mind. It _still_ doesn’t feel real, Izuna thinks, as he stands at the front of the clan, staring across the quiet battlefield at the assembled Senju. There seem to be a lot more of them than usual, Izuna thinks, but maybe it’s because he can’t see the rest of the Uchiha while he’s standing in front of them like this. He tries to pull himself together. It’s not as if he hasn’t fought the Senju clan countless times before. This is no different. It’ll be fine. It’ll be f—

Hashirama steps forward, his armor glinting red and gold in the sunlight. The air is hot, especially for an early spring morning like this one, and Izuna shifts slightly in Madara’s dark mantle.

 _Izuna, I can barely handle Hashirama,_ Madara’s voice says in his head. Izuna wonders where Madara is, if he’ll even be alive in twenty minutes’ time, and draws his sword with agonizing precision, not daring to break eye contact.

Fuck, Hashirama is _fast._ He charges forward before Izuna realizes what’s even happening. _Run,_ he thinks. _Run!_ He’s frozen in place for another split second before he can convince his legs to move. The clan is screaming and shouting behind him, and he hears with surprising clarity about a hundred swords being unsheathed at once. The sound invigorates him. He sprints ahead, over roots and uneven stones, and slashes at Hashirama’s head with his sword. Hashirama dodges it, of course, and whirls around. They lock blades.

The battlefield is chaos now. Izuna grits his teeth, trembles with exertion as Hashirama’s sword bears down on his. He had had no idea that Hashirama was this strong. It’s as if he’s not even _trying,_ Izuna thinks furiously, as Hashirama gives him a mischievous smile. Izuna wants to tear his lungs out. Duelling couples spin past him and he tries not to let them distract him—Hashirama’s blade is inching towards his throat—

 _“Madara!”_ someone shouts behind him. He whirls around. It’s Yumi. Hashirama’s cousin has knocked the sword out of her hands and is lunging at her, wielding an ax, and he watches as she slides back against a pile of stones, shaking. Somehow, intuitively, he knows what to do. Izuna blinks, activates Madara’s Mangekyou. _Aha,_ he thinks grimly. _That_ gets Hashirama to take a step back. Blue chakra boils at his feet. He can feel that strange, giddy lightness in his chest, and then—

Izuna gives a terrible scream.

His muscles are turning to liquid; his nerves are on fire. But beneath the pain there is still a trace of that sensation he had felt the last time he tried to activate the Susanoo, something powerful and tantalizing that beckons him to follow through, to go ahead and activate it completely. Izuna grits his teeth and steadies his shaking legs. The skeletal ribcage erupts from the ground, sending Toka sprawling. _I did it,_ Izuna thinks numbly, his whole body trembling uncontrollably. Like an afterthought, the Susanoo’s wings are deployed from his back, unfolding like a pair of enormous blue moonflowers.

“Madara?” Yumi says.

 _“Get back!”_ Izuna gasps. Something hot and wet is running down his face. Is he crying? He reaches up to wipe it away and his fingers come away bloody. He blinks. Blood collects on his eyelashes. He barely sees Yumi scrambling backwards. Izuna groans. He can’t keep the jutsu activated any longer. But—but it’s enough, he thinks dazedly, as Yumi dives for her sword and launches back into the fray, completely unharmed. In an abundant spray of ribs, the Susanoo disintegrates. Izuna collapses facefirst into the dirt, every inch of him aching. Familiar thundering footsteps are approaching him from behind, but he can’t bring himself to be even remotely afraid. Instead, he thinks it’s rather fitting that Hashirama will be the one to do him in like this. He smiles. _Sorry, Madara._

* * *

Madara has almost completely lost sight of Izuna on the battlefield by now, though he can still sense his chakra just over the hill. Not good. He blows a white-hot fireball at Tobirama, who evades it easily. It’s not nearly as big as his usual efforts, and he curses Izuna’s body for slowing him down in combat like this. Tobirama also seems distracted today, he thinks. He keeps glancing back and forth between Madara and the direction from which Izuna’s chakra is radiating, looking almost comically confused. And then, halfway through weaving signs for a counterattack, Tobirama abruptly turns around and stares behind him, frowning spectacularly.

It’s Izuna. But something is different. Madara shivers. _Susanoo,_ he thinks, with a jolt of dread. _My Susanoo._ There’s the familiar ribcage, and the skeletal hands, and—he’s gotten the wings, too? It had taken Madara years to get the wings to work. Madara has barely processed this information when he sees the Susanoo evaporate completely; there’s a flash of blue light and then Izuna—in Madara’s body—is lying on the ground, completely motionless. _Fuck._ This isn’t good. He can still sense Izuna’s chakra, but it’s fading fast. Izuna was never one for moderation. He really— _fuck._ Madara leaves Tobirama behind and runs for his brother.

Then Hashirama is there too, fighting his way through to where Izuna has collapsed, with long tendrils of wood snaking from the cracked stone at his feet. Madara watches him weave them together into an enormous wooden dragon. Tobirama’s chakra catches up to them both, still wavering in abject confusion. He turns.

 _“Madara!”_ cries Hashirama, sprinting towards where Izuna is lying facedown on the ground in Madara’s body, not moving. Madara winces.  _Shut up, Hashirama._ This is very, very bad. Tobirama catches his eye, a very ugly look on his face. Then his gaze shifts slowly from Madara to Hashirama to Izuna, as if something extremely unpleasant has just dawned on him.

And then—Izuna is up again. 

* * *

He’s got the hang of it this time. The pain is there, of course, but he’s starting to understand how the Susanoo’s form relates to his own body. Izuna flexes his fingers—well, not really; nothing happens outside of his mind—and with the slightest inclination of his head, the blue ribcage sparks into being once again. Izuna isn’t sure how he gets upright, but it doesn’t even matter. He entertains the notion of lifting his arm. As if he’s in a dream, the Susanoo effortlessly obeys him. He brings the monstrous arm up and sends it hurtling down into the ground. Solid rock shatters beneath his clawed fist, sending deep vibrations shuddering through the Susanoo’s body. Izuna sighs softly. It feels _good._ The indescribable pain is fading now, giving way to a sort of divine, cosmic ecstasy. The jutsu has encased his body in a warm tingling sensation, like multitudes of stars on his skin, and it occurs to him that he doesn’t want it to stop. He thinks he could reach out and brush the edges of the universe with his fingertips like this. He looks down. The battlefield, the war, the clan, everything he had worried about yesterday—what _was_ he worried about yesterday?—it all feels so small, so insignificant. He is destruction. He is death. He is _power._

He glides with trancelike purpose over the battlefield, the Susanoo’s indigo wings unfurling behind him like a celestial umbrella. Senju and Uchiha warriors alike sprint from him, looking like little beetles in their funny little armor. He likes that.

He can hear quite a lot of shouting, but isn’t bothered. It sounds like it’s coming from afar, as if he’s underwater. He keeps stepping across the battlefield, leaving a trail of blue fire in his wake. The Senju are retreating. Good, he thinks. He did this himself. He lets his head loll back on his shoulders. He doesn’t really need it to be upright, not when he’s like this. In fact, he doesn’t really need to think at all…

At all...

Abruptly, the Susanoo folds in on itself and collapses into the ground. Izuna— _Izuna,_ he thinks, _that’s my name—_ gasps for breath, coughing as the world comes rushing back at him.

Izuna sits up, dazed. He looks around. Hashirama is gone. None of his surroundings look particularly familiar. How—how on earth did he manage to get all the way over here? He remembers the second Susanoo, and then an ungodly amount of pain, and then a vague—but strong—feeling of… _pleasure._ He gets to his feet, feeling very hollow. There are massive pointed footprints in the stone, rimmed with flickering blue flames. He frowns. The sight makes his heart race, for some reason. He feels that fantastic, insatiable pleasure again, twinging in his ribcage. It feels like sparks.

His body can’t maintain the jutsu for long. But, Izuna thinks quietly, as the rest of the Uchiha clan comes rushing at him, shouting congratulations in his direction, he really, really, _really_ wants to do it again.

* * *

Madara blows a monstrous fireball at the already-charred forest before him. Fuck. _Fuck._ Just when he’d thought things were starting to work out, Izuna had to go and do… _that._

They had barely talked the whole way back to the compound. Izuna, wherever he is now, is probably still resolutely pretending that the Susanoo… _incident_ had not happened. _I’m fine. Everything is fine,_ he had said, and marched ahead to the front of the line with his head held high. Madara thinks of the way his brother’s eyes had glazed over as the Susanoo’s power surged through his body, of the urgency in Hashirama’s voice as he shouted Madara’s name.

 _Fucking yeah right,_ Madara thinks, doggedly weaving signs for another fireball. He’s only blown about ten of them so far, and he’s already starting to feel like his chakra is running out. Damn this body.

Wait.

“Oh,” he says aloud. He’s just hungry. _Again._ Madara halfheartedly spits out a tiny burst of flame, gathers his sword and dagger, and heads back up the mountain for some food. _Annoying._

Twenty minutes later, he’s coming out of the main hall with a rice ball in his hand (and another in his pocket) when a small dark blur intercepts him. It’s a small, somewhat familiar-looking girl, probably about six or seven years old. He grimaces. He’s not even remotely in the mood for this. But the girl doesn’t seem to pick up on the foul energy radiating from him, or maybe she just doesn’t care. “Izuna!” she cries, running up to him and throwing her tiny arms around his midriff. Madara wheezes. “Where did you go yesterday? I looked for you _everywhere,_ ” she wails, seizing fistfuls of his mantle and sliding down against his shins until she’s sprawled halfway on the floor.

Madara freezes. Where _did_ he go yesterday? After the utter fiasco that was the previous morning, he had spent the remainder of the day holed up in his tent with his pile of ancient scrolls for company, and had only emerged to periodically procure food, like some sort of large, cave-dwelling invertebrate. “Sorry I missed you,” he says, afraid to ask her name. “I was a little busy.”

“That’s okay! Can you teach me how to draw a falcon today?” says the girl, producing a fistful of rolled-up papers from the pouch at her hip and sitting down expectantly at the nearest table. “Like one of Madara’s, maybe?”

Madara collects himself. “Why the sudden interest?” he says, sitting down next to her and thumbing through the pile of papers. Ah. Izuna’s drawings. There’s a rabbit, rendered in exquisite detail…a fox, sitting with its tail curled around its paws…there are cats and crows, jays and salamanders, and even a page devoted to a series of wicked-looking tengu. _How long has he been doing this?_ “What’s so great about Madara?”

“He saved my sister’s life today,” she says solemnly, and Madara thinks back to the morning’s battle with a flash of recognition. Oh. So _this_ is Yumi’s little sister. He wishes he could remember her name. “He’s amazing. And he’s so _cool!”_ she chirps, her eyes lighting up. Madara’s mouth falls open slightly. “My mother says that lots of people blame him for things that aren’t really his fault. It’s not fair.” Wide-eyed, she leans in close to him, as if she is about to impart a most vital secret. “She says they’re _ornery,”_ she whispers in his ear.

Madara closes his mouth. He can feel himself blushing. “I—I quite agree,” he says, fighting the absurd urge to laugh. She clasps her hands together and shoves a blank piece of paper towards him with her elbows. It’s a gesture not unlike one Izuna himself would have made, years and years ago. Madara smiles, picks up a charcoal stick, and then immediately remembers that he doesn’t know how to draw.

“Right, okay, um, raptors,” Madara says rather helplessly, trying to think back to the last time he saw Naomi. “Well—goshawks have eyes that look like this—” he draws two large bulbous shapes— “and then the beak curves down in a sort of crescent moon shape—oh, damn, that wasn’t very good— _don’t_ repeat that to anyone,” he says sternly. The girl giggles.

Very luckily, at that exact moment, Izuna walks by in Madara’s body, trying and failing to look furtive. Madara abandons his charcoal and raises an eyebrow at him. “And where are you off to?” he says.

“Oh,” Izuna says quickly. “Er—out.”

Madara watches him closely, frowning. He looks a little bit jumpier than usual. “Don’t be long,” he says. “You wouldn’t want to miss the bonfire.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” says Izuna delicately. “What have you got there?” He leans over the paper as Madara tries, too late, to cover it up with his hands. “Nice gecko.”

“It’s a goshawk,” Madara says under his breath. “Jackass.”

Izuna puts on a winning smile. “Language, my _dearest_ little brother,” he says. “Now please excuse me. I have important clan-leader-y things to attend to.”

“Fine,” Madara says. “I’ll see you at the bonfire, _Madara.”_

“Later, _Izuna,”_ Izuna says, and his face breaks into the biggest shit-eating grin Madara has ever seen. He waves. “Bye, Saya.”

The girl lets out a sound like a pneumatic tea kettle as Izuna walks off. “He knows my name!” she squeals, her drawing lesson completely forgotten. She bounces in her seat so vigorously that the table shakes. _“Madara knows my name!”_

* * *

Izuna creeps along the edge of the forest, his heart thudding somewhere in the region of his throat. This is probably—no. This is _definitely_ a bad idea. But, fuck, he just wants to know who it is. It’s still a little while before nightfall, so he should have some time to spare. Izuna scales a large birch tree to get a better view of the area. He’s pretty sure he knows the place that _dearest_ Madara’s…suitor had mentioned. (It’s all right to do this, he tells himself, because Madara had kept it a secret in the first place. He has a right to know.)

_All my love._

He keeps trying to imagine Madara in a relationship with another person, but it just doesn’t work. Madara, trusting someone? _Loving_ someone? It’s completely absurd. _I wish we could just be together all the time,_ Izuna remembers, and he drops down from the trees and steals silently into the clearing by the riverbend. There’s someone there, sitting by the river. Whoever it is, they’ve noticed him already; it’s too late to turn back now—

“You’re wearing your hair back?” says Hashirama. “I like it!”

 _Right?_ Izuna is about to say. _He looks good like this!_ And then he remembers that _he’s_ the one who’s supposed to be Madara right now, and Hashirama will be suspicious if he refers to himself in the third person. _I look good like this,_ he amends mentally, and then his brain catches up to him because _Hashirama Senju_ is smiling up at him from where he’s perched cross-legged in a bed of ferns by the edge of the water and—and what the _fuck,_ Madara.

There isn’t even any time to panic. “I—yes,” Izuna manages, _somehow,_ and Hashirama is still beaming at him as if he’s the most important human being on earth.

“I missed you,” Hashirama continues, standing up to greet him properly. _“So_ much.” Izuna clenches his jaw. He’s coming closer. He catches Izuna in a warm, tight embrace, burying his face in Madara’s long hair, and Izuna goes completely rigid. He’s too shocked to even consider moving his hands to shove him away. Hashirama is a _lot_ taller up close like this, and he’s built like—well, like a god attempting to inhabit a human form. “I’m sorry we couldn’t meet up sooner,” he says with such sincere fondness that Izuna almost gags—not good, he’s inches away from Hashirama’s face—and his arms just _linger_ around Madara’s body, holding him close, as if he never wants to let go. “I’m glad you’re all right now,” he murmurs. “This morning, I thought…”

Has his brother always been this short? Has Hashirama always been this fucking _tall?_ Izuna finally comes to his senses and ducks down, slipping out from between Hashirama’s arms. He’s nearly free when Madara’s hair snags on something—oh, damn it, it’s that stupid necklace Hashirama is always wearing—and Izuna panics and tears the entire clump of hair out and sits down hard on the riverbank, furiously straightening out his wayward sash.

Hashirama laughs. “What’s going on, Madara?” he says.

 _Oh,_ this is—not _remotely_ what he had expected. Izuna can feel a persistent blush creeping over Madara’s cheeks. Damn it, he had forgotten how easily his brother gets flustered in situations like this. Izuna wants to take this body and crawl into a hole and curl up in abject shame for the next several years. And, all right, maybe he’s not _quite_ ready to admit this to Madara yet, but this situation is…far beyond his ability to deal with. Damn it, Madara. Damn it, damn it, _damn it._

“Nothing,” he says. Madara’s voice shakes. “Um,” his throat is completely dry, “I’m kind of…not myself right now.” Somehow the words don’t carry the same weight as Madara’s words ordinarily would, even though Izuna is using his voice. He coughs. “I mean,” he tries again, “I’m…sick.”

Hashirama’s dark eyes cloud over with concern. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Although…that explains a lot about this morning. Will you be well enough by tomorrow? Do you want me to take a look at you? I can infuse some healing chakra for you, if you want.”

Izuna coughs again, this time because he’s choking on his own saliva. They’re supposed to be battling each other again tomorrow, and Hashirama has the audacity to show up and—and act like _this?_ “No,” he gasps, barely managing to avoid tacking on a vehement _Definitely not_.

“All right,” Hashirama says, and sits down next to him, crossing his legs and kicking off his sandals. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

Izuna tries to calm himself down. It’s obvious that Hashirama isn’t going to hurt him, to begin with, and it actually is a very beautiful evening, especially down by the river where the leftover heat of the day doesn’t hang so heavy in the air. He still feels a bit like he’s going to vomit. _Treat it as a recon mission,_ he tries to tell himself. _That’s all it is._

“I wish every day could be just like this,” Hashirama says fervently. “I know it’s gotten harder for us to meet up since you—since your father, um—” He coughs.

 _He knows about Tajima?_ Izuna stares at his knees, cold with dread all over again. _Madara must really trust him._ He feels like someone has removed his brain from his skull and given it a good shake, upending everything he had thought he knew about the past several years. Madara…Madara became clan leader _ages_ ago. How long has this even been going on?

“Just imagine,” Hashirama continues. “Us sitting on the riverbank, on some quiet afternoon in late summer…not a care in the world…”

He runs a warm hand through Madara’s hair. Izuna shivers. It’s such a familiar gesture, so loving, one that he’s sure Hashirama has done a thousand times before. He feels increasingly like he’s intruding on something private, sacred. _Fuck,_ he shouldn’t have come. He should never have even read the letter.

“May I braid your hair?” Hashirama says.

“Only if you’re better at braiding than he is,” Izuna says. He winces, hoping Hashirama hasn’t heard him. Then he supposes he might as well do the thing properly. “I mean—all right, I guess.”

Hashirama hums softly and adjusts his position so that his elbows are resting on Izuna’s shoulders. “I wanted to tell you,” he says, beginning to braid, “I’ve almost finished writing the ceasefire agreement. It’s still only a draft, but it’s definitely something.”

“Oh,” says Izuna, wisely. He shakes himself. Writing the _what?_

“I want peace between the clans,” Hashirama says. Izuna blanches. His ears must have stopped working, because there is _no_ way Hashirama is saying what he thinks he’s saying. “I want it so _badly.”_

Izuna clenches his fist against the pebbles in an attempt to ground himself. _Ceasefire agreement?_ “To want peace isn’t enough,” he mutters, drawing back slightly. “Nobody really _wants_ to be at war, do they?”

Hashirama sighs, looks up at the opposite riverbank. A leaf drifts downstream, tumbling over a patch of smooth stones. “I know,” he says, tying off the end of Izuna’s braid. “I’ve just been…frustrated recently.”

Izuna blinks. “Oh?”

Hashirama laughs. “Are you surprised? It’s human to be frustrated sometimes,” he says mildly. “You’re the only person I feel like I can _be_ frustrated around, anyway.”

Izuna can feel himself blushing again. _Damn it, Madara._ “Peace isn’t as simple as proposing a ceasefire agreement, you know,” he says carefully. His heart is racing. Holy shit, Hashirama is going to turn the world as Izuna knows it completely on its head. Is Madara in on this? Is he _complicit?_ How long have they been planning this? Fuck, no wonder his brother gets headaches. “The timing has to be right. You can’t just expect people to go along with you.”

Hashirama looks at him, his face earnest and serious and determined and desperate. “I have to try,” he says. His lip trembles. “If we wait for the right time, we’ll never get anything done. Now is the only time we have.”

Izuna opens his mouth to say something revealing and stupid, like _Yes but could you please at least wait until my brother and I are back in the correct bodies before you change things around?,_ but stops when he realizes that Hashirama is—

“Are you _crying?”_

“No,” Hashirama says, obviously crying. “I’m just—happy you’re here.” Izuna groans. Fucking hell, he needs Madara, he can’t deal with this on his own—

_Madara._

Madara has a lot of explaining to do. A lot of _groveling_ to do, actually. “Here,” Izuna says, and very, _very_ tentatively reaches out and puts his arms around Hashirama’s shoulders. Hashirama sighs and wipes his eyes and rests his head on Izuna’s chest. His hair is very warm…very soft…very _long._

“Five years,” Izuna says.

Hashirama gives him a faint, watery smile. “Hmm?”

“Since Tajima,” Izuna elaborates. Hashirama looks up at him abruptly, and his eyes flash in recognition. “It’s been—really hard.” He shudders. “There’s never enough to eat, but he—I always make sure Izuna gets something, at least. And we’re short on armor, and weaponry, and clothing. But he still— _I_ —I work so hard and nobody wants to acknowledge _how_ hard and it’s not _fair,”_ Izuna says, tearing a clump of grass out of the ground and tossing it into the water. He watches it sail downstream, biting the inside of his cheek. “They all just want someone to blame when something goes wrong, and I’m so _frustrated,”_ he cries out. “I’m frustrated too, Hashirama.” The name slips past his lips like something odd and foreign and strange. “If h—If I accept the truce, I don’t know what the clan will do. I don’t want them to think I’ve betrayed them. I’ve...I’ve put _everything_ I’ve got into the clan. I don’t want it to be for nothing. So just—hold off. For a little while longer.”

He’s nearly out of breath by the time he finishes, still cradling Hashirama’s head in his arms. The whole situation is so…absurd and unbelievable and bizarre and he just wants everything to go back to _normal—_

“All right,” Hashirama says at once. “Madara...I trust you. Unconditionally. I won’t do anything that you’re not comfortable with.”

Izuna looks down at him, trying to ignore the lump in his throat. _If only you knew, Hashirama._ Something tickles his left hand. He lifts it up from the riverbank, frowning. Velvety moss is sprouting between the stones, emerald-green and miraculously soft. Izuna stares at it, awestruck. He hadn’t realized Hashirama’s powers could manifest like this.

“I’m so proud of you, Madara,” Hashirama says, his eyes lighting up as the moss continues to grow. “When they all look at you and doubt you—I wish everyone could see what I see.”

He kisses Madara’s hand, so gently it feels like the wings of a butterfly. Izuna’s face is burning. “Thanks,” he says, rather numbly. Belatedly it hits him that this is, in fact, the first successful political negotiation he’s ever had.

“You know what they say,” Hashirama says. "If a tree falls in the forest, you know it's time to plant a seed."

* * *

“What the _fuck,”_ Izuna says, marching into Madara’s tent and slamming his palms down on the table. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Madara slowly lifts his chin off his hand and looks up from his papers. “Tell you what?” he says.

Izuna reaches into his hip pouch and retrieves Hashirama’s letter. He hurls it onto the table between them, jaw clenched, breathing hard through his nose. Frowning, Madara reaches forward and picks it up.

“Oh,” Madara says breathlessly. The color drains completely from his face. He opens his mouth, then closes it. _“Oh,”_ he says again, looking like a smacked trout.

Izuna watches him furiously read through the letter. In any other situation he probably would have laughed at the sheer speed at which his brother’s face turns from delicate gray to a violent shade of magenta, but right now, he’s pissed. “I think,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “you owe me several explanations.”

Madara grimaces, still bright red in the face. He can’t take his eyes off the letter. “Where on _earth_ did you get—?” he begins.

“Naomi dropped it off,” Izuna snaps. “Don’t change the subject.”

Madara sets down the letter and puts his head in his hands. “Fucking hell, Izuna, that’s no reason to go behind my back and read my private _—_ my—” he breaks off, blushing an even deeper red than before.

“Going behind your back? What would you call _this,_ then?” Izuna shouts, brandishing Hashirama’s letter in front of his brother’s face. “What—what do you think you’re _doing,_ Madara? Do you know what he told me? Do you know what he _said?_ I can’t believe you’d just let the clan dissolve like this! _You,_ of all people! I’ve looked up to you my whole life!”

Madara frowns. “What did he say?” he asks, looking like he genuinely doesn’t know the answer.

“He’s doing away with clans!” Izuna cries. A look of dawning comprehension crosses Madara’s face. “He wants to form a _truce!_ Can you even imagine it? I managed to dissuade him for now, but—”

“Maybe I _am_ trying to protect the clan,” Madara says loudly, cutting him off. “Maybe I think the truce is our best option. Consider that, will you?”

“But I—you can’t possibly—”

“Could you perhaps take _twenty seconds_ out of your day to stop being so overconfident and think about the potential consequences of your actions?” Madara shouts. “You get into so much trouble, Izuna! _Too_ much trouble! What were you thinking? You were completely alone! What if it had been an ambush? What if you had walked right into a trap? Especially considering all the _weird shit_ that’s been going on in our lives lately!”

“I think,” Izuna says lightly, “that I’ve dealt with enough... _weird shit_ lately to be able to handle a simple _ambush_ on my own without you interfering, Madara.”

Madara laughs rather cruelly. “Like the way you handled that Susanoo this morning?”

Izuna bristles. “I saved Yumi’s life,” he says.

“You almost completely lost your senses!” Madara says. “It nearly _absorbed_ you!”

“Yes,” Izuna presses on, “but it _didn’t_ , so what’s the problem—”

“I just,” Madara says. He takes a deep breath and clenches his fists against the table. His knuckles are white. “I want you to be careful. I don’t want you to end up…well, like me.”

“Hello,” Izuna snarls. “Look at me. I _am_ you.”

Madara bites his tongue and looks down at the table. Hashirama’s letter is still curled up innocently between them.

“You’ve been meddling in _my_ business for years,” Izuna says loftily. “I figured it was time to return the favor.”

Madara is silent for a long time. So long, in fact, that Izuna actually experiences a flicker of doubt. He tries not to let it show on his face.

“Fine,” Madara says at last, in a very small voice. Izuna looks up at him, surprised.

“What?”

“You’re right,” Madara says bitterly, chewing on his lip. “I should have told you sooner. About the Mangekyou, and Hashirama.” He still doesn’t meet Izuna’s eyes. “Just—just get out. I want to be alone.”

Madara doesn’t have to tell him twice. Izuna storms out of the tent, not knowing where he wants to go or what he wants to do. He feels…heavy. He knows he shouldn’t have opened the letter in the first place. But he did, and now _everyone_ is miserable. Izuna sighs, and looks up at the sky. The moon is out now, silver and round. He wonders if Hashirama is looking up at it too, wherever he is. He can hear laughter and shouting and from the other side of the compound. Fuck, the bonfire is starting. He had completely forgotten.

He’s not in the mood for it, he decides, and retreats back to his tent.

* * *

He’s tested his own strength against Madara’s countless times. He knows when Madara holds back, and he knows when Madara puts all his strength into a spar. Mostly because, lately, Madara _has_ put all his strength into their spars, leaving Izuna bruised and limping and, during one particularly harrowing instance, out of commission for several days nursing a fractured skull.

But with Hashirama…Izuna isn’t sure. In fact, now that he thinks about it, he isn’t sure that either Hashirama or Madara have ever shown each other even the slightest degree of animosity on the battlefield. Rather, they seemed to have just been going through the motions. The thought blazes in him like a tiny flame—he tries to think back to the first few times they ever fought the Senju clan, back when he was—what, six or seven years old? They had been _friends,_ Izuna remembers, before anything else. He and Tobirama have attempted to deliver each other fatal blows multiple times—he practically expects it by now. But his brother and Hashirama? They’ve shown each other nothing but _mercy,_ Izuna thinks, from the very first time they fought. Izuna sits up in the dark and pulls the covers back and quickly wraps himself in Madara’s yukata. _Interesting,_ he thinks. _Very, very interesting._

* * *

“Madara?”

Madara rolls over in bed with the utmost reluctance. He’s still holding on to Hashirama’s letter. Quickly, he sets it aside on the floor.

“Everyone is waiting for us at the bonfire,” Izuna says meekly. “Here.”

He holds out a bowl of soup like a peace offering. “You probably need this more than I do,” he says, “in that body.”

Madara sits up. He stares, tilts Izuna’s head. And then, at last, something in his gaze softens. “No,” he says, suddenly businesslike, and stands up, his blanket falling off his shoulders.

Izuna blinks. “What?”

“We both need to eat,” Madara says, retrieving a second bowl from the shelf behind them. “Come on. We’ll split it.”

Izuna smiles tentatively, and is relieved to receive an equally careful smile in response. Together, they spoon half the noodles into the second bowl. With as much precision as he can summon, Izuna pours the broth.

“I’d completely forgotten what it was like to be hungry all the time,” Madara says, as they sit down to eat. In the silence of the tent, the sounds from the distant bonfire are getting louder. Someone has started playing a fast-paced tune on the shamisen.

“I’d take hungry over tired,” Izuna admits. “I have no idea how you do it.”

Madara sighs, but it’s a fond noise. “Me either,” he says, transferring more noodles from Izuna’s bowl into his own. He purses his lips. “I should have told you about the Mangekyou ages ago,” he says quickly, as if he just wants to get it over with. “It wasn’t fair of me to keep you in the dark like that. Er, in a manner of speaking.”

Izuna laughs. Somehow, just this tiny bit of food has made him feel infinitely better. “It’s as if spending time in my body has brought your sense of humor back,” he says. “Tell me about the Mangekyou. What do you know?”

Madara takes a long breath before answering. “The more you use it,” he says carefully, “the more it wants to be used. And the more you use it, the faster your eyesight deteriorates. It’s a curse, Izuna.”

Izuna doesn’t know what to say to that, exactly, so he drinks some more soup. Someone at the bonfire is setting off fireworks, and they echo overhead like thunder.

“You know, you lasted longer with the Susanoo than I did the first time,” Madara admits. “I barely made it thirty seconds before it got me. That was…pretty amazing, what you did this morning.”

“Thanks,” Izuna says, smiling sightly.

“Your friend Saya certainly seemed to think so too,” Madara says.

Izuna’s smile widens. “She’s sweet, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” Madara says fondly. “She is.”

“And a talented artist,” says Izuna.“Much better than some people I could mention.”

There is a very loaded pause. Madara drinks deeply from his bowl. Izuna watches him, frowning. He takes a deep breath, and forges ahead.

“Are you…” he searches for the right words. “Are you happy?”

Madara blinks. “What?”

“With Hashirama,” Izuna says, with difficulty. “Does he make you happy?”

Madara blushes and bites his lip. Izuna can tell he’s trying not to smile. He thinks back to the way Hashirama had looked at him with admiration and awe blazing in his eyes, the way he had ever-so-softly run his fingers through Madara’s hair.

“Yes,” Madara says. “He does.”

“He said a lot of nice things about you,” Izuna says.

Madara puts his face in his hands. “Of course he did,” he mumbles. “Embarrassing.”

“I suppose,” Izuna says, “I’d better give you my blessing, then. Seeing as you two are going to do your thing together whether I like it or not.”

“What are you,” Madara laughs, “my older brother?”

“Something like that,” says Izuna. “Finish your soup and we can go down to the bonfire. We’ll show them all how to really dance.”

“We’re too late,” Madara says, casting a worried glance towards the tent flap. “They’ve been going at it for hours now.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Izuna says. “You’re with me, remember?”

* * *

Together, they bring the house down.

* * *

**DAY THREE**

“Something is not right,” says Tobirama over breakfast.

Hashirama fiddles with his teacup. “What?”

“Madara,” Tobirama mutters. “And Izuna. Something is… _very_ wrong.”

Hashirama rests his chin on his hand, pensive. “What do you mean?” he says.

“Well,” Tobirama says slowly. “For one thing, their chakra is… not right. I mean—it’s right, but it’s—not—in the right place,” he decides, sounding less and less sure of himself as he talks. Hashirama frowns. “It’s as if they’re—”

Hashirama raises his eyebrows. “As if they’re what?”

Tobirama shakes his head. “Never mind,” he says, not noticing that Hashirama has grown duckweed in his teacup. “Stupid idea.”

* * *

Waking up in Izuna’s body for the third day in a row, Madara thinks, had been a thoroughly discouraging way to start the morning. This is all starting to feel rather…permanent.

And that brings up a whole new set of problems, he thinks, idly blocking Tobirama’s sword with a flick of his wrist. Is there even a way to break the jutsu? Who will lead the clan, if they _can’t_ break it? _What will he do about Hashirama?_

Tobirama leaps backwards, then launches a water dragon at him, which Madara dodges easily. Steam billows thickly over the battlefield. The day is harsh and hot, and even with Izuna’s decent vision, Madara can barely see his hand in front of his face like this. Hashirama and Izuna are nowhere to be found either. An enormous vortex tumbles at him from his left, and he quickly weaves signs for a fireball to deflect it. He can feel Hashirama’s chakra approaching, with Izuna’s in tow. _Great,_ he thinks. _All three of them at once._

Izuna is holding his own against Hashirama, Madara realizes, impressed. He dances across the battlefield with great ribbons of flame trailing behind him in a series of twisting spirals. Hashirama is watching him with his eyes sparkling and his mouth hanging open slightly. _No, damn it,_ Madara thinks, _you should look at me like that instead_ —

Madara shakes himself. He’s lost track of the battle. Hashirama is standing still; Izuna is wide open. Not good, Madara thinks. At any moment now, someone could—

And then everything changes in an instant. He sees Tobirama appears out of thin air with his sword raised, sprinting towards his brother. Madara forgets everything he knows about combat and strategy and self-preservation, and dashes forward.

 _“No!”_ Madara screams. He dives. The sword plunges through him and he chokes on blood.

It's...a bit anticlimactic, actually. _This_ is how he's going to die? This is how the fearsome Madara Uchiha goes down, impaled by Hashirama's brother while stuck in his own brother's body? The wound is _bad._ Madara’s knees buckle; he hits the ground and almost passes out at the jolt from the impact. His side is—he presses his hands to the gash, trying to ignore the stinging, the way his vision is turning white. And then cold fingers hold his shoulders, cradle his head, wipe the blood from his mouth.

“Madara,” Izuna breathes in his ear. He brushes Madara’s hair out of his face. “Madara, can you hear me? I’m going to get you out of here, come on, you have to grab my shoulder.” Madara blinks up at him. The words aren’t making any sense. Izuna reaches behind Madara’s back, then hooks his arm around his shoulder and hoists him up. “That’s it,” he says, “that’s good, Madara, now just hang on—”

They are gone in a burst of blue smoke.

* * *

“You should have just used the Susanoo,” Izuna says quietly.

It doesn’t look good. Madara is as white as a sheet, his side drenched in blood. The tent floor is covered in it. He groans, squeezes his eyes shut. “I didn’t want to ruin—” he starts.

Izuna cuts him off. “I hereby give you express permission to use my Susanoo for me,” he says. Madara laughs, and then coughs. Blood runs down his chin.

“I didn’t have time to think,” he says ruefully. “I just—”

“Don’t try to explain,” Izuna says, folding his blanket onto the wound and pressing it there. “We need to stop the bleeding.”

Madara shakes his head. “Listen,” he rasps, and reaches up with one shaking hand to grab Izuna’s collar. “Izuna, I’m sorry. Everything you said about me—you were right.”

Izuna blanches. “Madara, don’t,” he says weakly. Madara ignores him.

“I don’t think I was ever afraid of you dying,” he says. “I was afraid of...of what I would think of _myself_ if I ever let you die. But right now I’m—I’m just proud,” Madara says. His eyes are wet. “I’m so _proud_ of you, Izuna.”

Izuna shakes his head. “Madara,” he says. “Just—just hold still, you’ll be fine, I’m going to—”  

Madara looks up at him. “Maybe this is good,” he says. “If…maybe if I die like this, the jutsu will shut itself off. You’ll be back to normal.”

Izuna stifles a hysterical laugh. “You think I’m going to sit back and let you _die,”_ he says, “on the off chance that it fixes the problem? Who the fuck is impulsive _now?”_

Madara smiles and doesn’t answer. “I want you to be clan head,” he says instead. “You—I know you can do it.”

“What?” Izuna says, feeling as if the wind has been knocked out of his lungs. “Madara, no, I’m not ready to be _clan head_ , what are you talking about, you’re going to be fine,” his fingers are sliding frantically against one another on Madara’s abdomen; he can’t close the wound, can’t stop the bleeding, “Madara—I’m not ready to—”  

Madara smiles. “I have complete faith in you,” he says.

“Madara—” Izuna begins, and he doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say, he just knows that he’s not ready to lose his brother—and then out of nowhere his side is on fire and his breath catches horribly in his throat. _“Madara,”_ Izuna says again, clutching his side. “I think—” He cries out and doubles over, gasping. “I think part of the jutsu’s come undone,” he chokes out. “I can feel the wound.”

Madara doesn’t respond. He’s gone completely still. _“Madara!”_ Izuna screams, trying to ignore the pain in his own body and pressing both his hands against the bloody gash in his brother’s mantle. “Madara—please—wake up, _wake up,_ something’s not right, we’re turning back—”

It’s wrong, it’s all _wrong,_ Izuna thinks—their souls are switching but Izuna’s body is already d—

—And then, through the blinding pain, through the headache and the fading vision and the dark blood rising in his lungs, Izuna gets a terrible, awful, _fantastic_ idea.

“Take my eyes,” he gasps, praying that Madara’s soul is still hovering somewhere in the vicinity, listening to him. “Once you’re back in your own body, Madara, can you hear me?” His vision is turning white—he can barely see— “Madara, _Madara,_ take my eyes!”

He blinks and the world is dissolving into a dazzling, bright white haze—there’s a snap of chakra, a burst of air, and then everything is gone.

* * *

**LATER**

“Izuna,” Hashirama says very solemnly, clasping his hands together, “I’m so sorry. I would never have acted like that towards you if I had known who you really were that day.”

“You saved my life,” Izuna says with a shrug. The fish earring dangles from his ear. Madara winces at it. “We’ll just call it even.”

Hashirama smiles warmly. “I appreciate you thinking of me,” he says, “especially considering…” He gestures vaguely at himself, and then at Madara, who is sitting next to him with hair in a braid, and one hand resting gently on Hashirama’s shoulder. “Everything.”

“Well, look at it this way,” Izuna says. “If I had never gone to meet you that day, I wouldn’t have known to trust you later on. Although,” he continues, “perhaps I wouldn’t have needed any healing in the first place if _someone_ hadn’t gotten me cut open.” He pouts in Madara’s direction. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

“I’ll have you know I was saving your life,” Madara says primly. He frowns. “Sort of.”

Hashirama laughs. “Tobirama really _was_ onto something,” he reflects. “You two certainly befuddled him.”

Madara smirks. “I’ll deny it ever happened until my dying day,” he says.

Izuna nods vigorously. “Me too.” He stands up, stretches experimentally. "We'll have to make up something interesting for the records, though, for how you got your vision back.”

Madara laughs.“Aren't you glad you didn't end up with  _my_ vision?" he says. "Wouldn't that have been something.  _Take my eyes,_ honestly."

"You _heard_ that?" Izuna says. "You _were_ awake, you bastard!"

"You know," Madara says loudly, "we really ought to thank the Yamanaka clan for coming up with that damn jutsu in the first place. All in all, a much better alternative to...” he shudders. "Eye-swapping."

“Oh, definitely,” Izuna says. “I had a _great_ time hanging out in your body. I can't wait to tell everyone I know about it. Anyway, I’m off to the compound,” he announces, fastening his haori importantly. “I’ve got to drop off those papers for Hikaku. And I believe I owe Saya a drawing or two. Keep it civil, gentlemen.”

“Well, Hashirama,” Madara says as Izuna leaves. A rather sly smile spreads across his face. “I believe we have a ceasefire agreement to sign.”

Hashirama smiles too, reaching behind him for a pen. “You know,” he says, “I believe you’re exactly right."

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY. i'm not really sure what to say about this one. i hope you enjoyed it??? it was extremely fun to write. let's see......i don't actually believe that mads and hashi had a secret relationship before the truce, but the plot sort of demanded there be one. anyway, i'd like to thank freaky friday, she's the man, and seventeen again for inspiring this silly little fic. thanks for reading lol


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